Everything I Touch
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Roy Mustang is the hero, not of one war, but of two. After Ishbal and Drachma, you'd think he was unstoppable. But can he win the war against himself? Royai and a smidge of Papa!Roy.


**Author's Note: I wasn't originally intending to write this story. But then ShrimpyJess97 asked if I could do a Parental!RoyEd companion piece to "Sacred Simplicity," and the plot bunny bit _hard._ This is another small piece of my little Drachma War AU, and like "Sacred Simplicity," I decided to experiment with style and deal with what the characters must have gone through in the aftermath of a war against Drachma. While "Sacred Simplicity" focused mostly on Ed and Al's relationship, this time I wanted to explore what Mustang would have gone through. In case you haven't read any of my other fics in this AU, Hawkeye didn't fight alongside Mustang in the war, so now she has to help him pick up the pieces. So get ready for plenty of Royai, with dashes here and there of Papa!Roy :3 Probably not as much Parental!RoyEd as ShrimpyJess97 originally wanted, but too bad :P **

_I never knew the distance  
So draw your lines down in the sand  
And life could just change in an instant, she said  
You're not sure now who I am  
And it's getting hard to breathe  
Is this my life or just what's left of me?  
And it's getting hard to take  
Is this my heart or just what's yet to break?_

 _\- "In an Instant" by Attention_

 _They hold my hands over the fire and I burn everything I touch_

 _\- "Demons" by Colossus_

* * *

You've done all this before. You know how it's supposed to work. So why is it so hard?

You'd think that someone who'd been to hell and back— _twice—_ would have all this down to a science. Go to war, fight for your life, kill, soil your hands, listen to their screams, come back home and relive it every night for the rest of your life. Easy-peasy. Just drink yourself into the gutter every night and you'll get enough sleep to function. Throw yourself at your dreams, fill your thoughts with the people you can save _now,_ and eventually it will get better.

You realize now how stupid you were to think you could do this. When you came back from Ishbal, you were a torn wreck of a human being. After Drachma, you're just a husk filled with raging, howling demons you can hardly contain. You can barely drown them out when you keep yourself busy, spending long hours at the office, schmoozing your way through the ranks. Doing the whole Roy Mustang thing with a facade you could keep up in your sleep.

It's when you get home that they attack. When you pause for a second in the shower to relish the hot water against your back. When a comfortable silence falls between you and your wife at dinner. When you pull the sheets up, switch off the light, and settle in for the night.

They strike at you mercilessly, stabbing your vitals, spilling your blood, cackling madly as they trample your heart. They don't listen to your screams, and they have no sympathy for your protests that _I was following orders_ or _they would have killed my men_ or _they attacked first._ You see their faces, hear their screams, _smell_ their flesh as it curls and burns and flakes away into ash. Funny, how much humans smell like barbecue.

Sometimes you hallucinate the smell and your stomach growls. Mmmm, people-burgers. Tasty.

She worries about you. She never says anything, but you can see it in the tight corners of her mouth. The days you push your food around on your plate, claim you had a big lunch. Worse, the days you make it halfway through the meal and then bolt to the bathroom and puke up everything you ever ate in your life.

Maybe the worst part of it is that she _understands._ She knows what you're going through, she's seen it all before. She's _felt_ it all before. Rather than asking what's wrong or bursting into tears, she stoops down as best as she can and rubs your back until you're finished and can help her back up. She gets you a glass of water and your toothbrush. She puts your untouched food in a plastic container in the icebox for tomorrow. She washes your dishes, puts them away, cleans everything till it's spotless. The next day she packs you a salad for lunch, with nothing remotely like _rotting, twisting, burning, screaming..._

At night, when you jerk awake with a gasp or a half-strangled scream, flailing at invisible enemies, she wraps her arms around you and holds you gently until you remember where you are. She pulls you close, whispers in your ear, kisses the palm of your hand and places it on the smooth, warm bulge of her flesh. Sometimes you can feel the baby shifting under your hand, and you wonder if it can hear your screams in there. If the first thing it will ever know of its father is terror and a blast of sound and then weak, pathetic sobs. Maybe, the first time it opens its eyes, it will cry out in fright at the sight of you, because it will see who you really are. _What_ you really are.

 _And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire...and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever._

* * *

You try not to be a burden. You _see_ how she struggles just to get through every day, carrying a weight around with her as precious as gold. A weight that _you_ gave her, and as much as you know you both want it...you can't help regretting it. You remember her tears when she realized she wouldn't be able to join you at the front, not even as a noncombatant. She wouldn't be able to watch your back. All she could do was watch you leave like so many other housewives, then go home and try to pretend life could go on with so much uncertainty.

She's so beautiful with a gun in her hands. It sounds like a horrible thing to say, but it's true. She picks up the rifle, sights down the barrel, finds her target, and pulls the trigger with no hesitation. In those moments, it's like the gun is part of her body. Her hands never shake when she handles guns. She never hesitates, never doubts her ability. She knows her skill, and she knows how to put it to the best use.

And yet, you stole that from her. You shoved her into a box that wouldn't fit, and then you left her there while you went off and made a name for yourself and protected your comrades and got to be the hero. And now she sweats and pants just to walk up the stairs, and you find her napping in your chair when you get home, feet propped up and everything swollen. Though it makes you feel like the worst husband in the world, you have to admit...most of the time, she's not very beautiful.

But then sometimes, in the middle of the night, when you're gasping and gripping your head so tightly you think it'll break, you feel her hands on your back—strong, sure, steady. Then you look at her eyes, all puffy from sleep. Her hair, straggling every which-way like strands of straw. The faint wrinkles of worry in her forehead. And you love her youloveher _you_ _ **loveher.**_

Aren't you horrible? You take and take and take and you let her give.

* * *

For a while—months, even—you can pretend that you're getting better. Nothing's wrong, you're happy to be home. You throw yourself into your work, you talk and laugh with Edward, you do your part to lead this country to a better, brighter future. Inside, every day is a scream scratching at the inside of your skull. She's the only one who feels those scratches, and she pretends she doesn't mind the sound. You pretend it helps.

But all games of make-believe have to come to an end one way or another. One night, you're stuck in that world of the burning sun and the burning flames, the freezing cold and the cold core of your heart. Burning hands grasp at you, turn to ash, then freeze your limbs to the ground and you can't escape. A soldier with a mad gleam in his eye rushes at you, and you raise your hand to snap, but then you realize your gloves are in shreds between your fingers.

So you lunge for his throat, and you squeeze with all your might. He scratches at the back of your hands, his eyes bulging as he gasps for breath that just isn't there. And you don't care, you just want to _live,_ and if living means taking his life away, that's fine with you.

He manages to pry your fingers away just enough to gasp, "Roy..."

You blink, and suddenly you realize that the soldier's hair straggling everywhere is the color of sun-warmed straw, falling into eyes the color of chestnuts, and the diamond ring on her hand is cutting into your knuckle, and you can feel the warm bulge of her belly against you as you hold her down.

With a horrified gasp, you let go and scramble backwards, stumbling over her legs and falling off the end of the bed with a _thump._ She props herself up on one elbow, coughing and gasping desperately, clutching at her neck. Still coughing, she reaches over and snaps on the lamp on her bedside table, propping herself up against the headboard. In the warm orange glow, the marks of your fingers show up starkly against her skin.

"Sorry," you say, the words inadequate as soon as they fall from your lips. "I...I'm sorry..."

She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to catch her breath, but you're not sure if that means she accepts your apology or just wants you to stop trying. She coughs again, and winces at the pain.

Slowly, you get to your feet and take a tentative step towards her. "I...could have...I mean, I almost..."

Her tired eyes open slightly and meet yours. You can't read the expression in them, but there are tears on her cheeks. Something cold and unforgiving clenches around your heart. You can almost hear it crack.

And so you run.

By the time you notice the frigid air stinging the back of your throat with each gasp, and you're forced to slow down, you realize that you're in the park. No one is out at this time of the morning; the grey pre-dawn light tinges the misty morning air, turning every bare-branched tree into a skeletal ghost. Slowly, you sink down onto a bench, shivering and trying to catch your breath. Suddenly you realize that, in your haste to escape the thick, cloying guilt in your chest, you forgot to grab your coat or even put on shoes. Goosebumps cover your bare arms, and your feet are turning an ugly greyish-purple in your house slippers.

So you hug your arms close and huddle down on a bench, and you try not to fall apart. What have you done now? What have you _done?_ The one person you love most, the woman you swore to protect and defend and take care of...she could have died. You could have _killed_ her, and all because you can't control yourself. You're a liability to everyone around you, like a live wire with no insulation. You're a forest fire out of control, and all anyone can do is run as fast as they can.

This is exactly what happened to Knox, you remember suddenly. He came back from Ishbal, and his happy little family with a wife and kid fell to pieces. Because he would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, reaching for his gun and nearly killing them time after time. Eventually, he'd done the only thing he could: leave them, in order to protect them.

A leaden weight settles in your gut. For so many years, she's been at your side, helping you through a thousand struggles, mammoth and miniscule alike. Whenever anyone has threatened to harm her, you've become lost in a blinding, desperate rage to protect her, to destroy anything that would lay a finger on her. But now...that rage turns on yourself, and will settle for nothing less than destruction.

She'll agree with you. She has to. Now that you both know you're only a danger to her, there's nothing for it but to pull away. Maybe, if she doesn't hate you too much after what you almost did, she'll let you see her once in a while. Take her out to dinner, where there are enough people around you that you can't do anything _too_ horrible. Maybe you can at least look at your kid from afar, watch the baby grow into a strong young man or a beautiful young woman.

You're so deep in your dull, depressed thoughts that you don't register the sound of approaching footsteps until they're joined by a yell. "Mustang! _There_ you are! I've been looking all over for you!"

Edward Elric was the last person you expected to see running up to you in a random park at 5 a.m., and at first you can only stare at him stupidly.

"Wow, you look like crap," he says with his usual tact, then shrugs off his coat and swings it around your shoulders. You numbly pull it closed around you, enveloped in warmth and the familiar smell of sweat and oil. After months of sharing a tent with him in Drachma, you'd recognize that smell anywhere.

In his shirtsleeves, still breathing heavily, Edward puts his hands on his hips and glares down at you. "What the _hell_ are you doing, sitting out here freezing to death while your wife is in the hospital?"

Icy fingers of terror close around your heart, as if to avenge what you've done. It's no use now. You've broken every promise you ever made to her. You've gone and ruined everything you ever cared about, you stupid, miserable _idiot._

"Yeah, the hospital," Edward continues, driving the stake further and further into your heart with every word. "She called us about an hour ago, because her water broke and _someone_ wasn't there to help her like he was supposed to!"

Maybe karma is real after all. You're finally getting what you deserve after every horrible thing you've done in two wars and all the years in between. She's going to die, you just know it. She'll die, and the baby along with her, and it'll all be your own fault, because everything you touch gets ruined anyway, doesn't it?

"Hello!" Edward yells, rapping his knuckles against your skull. "Are you awake in there? Your _wife_ is giving birth _right now,_ so you might wanna...I don't know, _be there for her?_ "

You shiver, but it's not from the cold that's settled into your bones. "She...probably wouldn't want me there..."

If you weren't trying so hard to stop shaking, you might notice how Edward shuts his mouth and looks at you searchingly for a minute, holding back his usual impertinent comments. When he does speak, it's in a low, serious voice. "Okay, something's going on here that you're not telling me."

"Is she okay?" you ask, not meeting his eyes, not answering the question in them. "Is she...in pain?"

"Well, _duh,_ " he says. "She's having a baby. Don't worry, Al took her to the hospital. She wouldn't tell us what happened, but she kept on asking me to go look for you. Said you'd run off somewhere. So are you gonna just sit there, or are you going to explain to me why I had to scour half of Central to find the guy who should be in the hospital already?"

So you tell him everything. All of a sudden, you're dying to spill your guts and have someone agree that you're the worst excuse for a human being. You know Edward wouldn't shrink from telling you such a truth. By the end of it, even though you have his coat wrapped tightly around yourself, you're shaking worse than ever.

For a moment, Edward just sits there silently. At some point during your story, he sank down onto the bench next to you. Finally he says the words you were expecting, yet dreading to hear. "You're such an idiot, Mustang."

You brace yourself for more, wait almost eagerly for him to drown you with insults. But instead of leaping to his feet and yelling in your face, he just says softly, "I thought you, of all people, would know better than to sell her short."

You look up in surprise, and he puts his hands on your shoulders to make sure you're looking at him. His eyes are piercing and determined, full of fire—but not the destructive fire you know far too well. This is a fire that gives life.

"Don't you know how _much_ she loves you?" he says. "I'm just a kid, and even _I_ can see it! The whole time we were getting her ready to go, we kept on asking her how she was, but all she would talk about was _you!_ She's _worried_ about you, dummy! She wants you to be okay, even though she knows you're not. And she's not sure how to help, but she's trying everything she can. So stop _insulting_ her by deciding she must hate you."

"But...But I _hurt_ her."

"The only reason she's hurting is because _you_ are."

The sun peeks cautiously over the horizon of rooftops, and a few tentative birds begin to chirp. You see pain in those golden eyes, but when you look closer you see your own reflection. You take a deep breath and slowly nod. "Okay. We should go."

* * *

It's weird. Everything is backwards. Edward, the snot-nosed kid that _you_ dragged kicking and screaming into manhood, tells you things you never imagined he noticed. Things that you ought to know like the back of your hand. You feel like you ought to be offended or something, to hear these obvious truths from someone who's always been below you.

But then, there were a lot of things that broke in Drachma. One of them was your pride.

More than anything else, you're grateful for his warm, confident presence at your side as you hurry into the hospital and explain who you are to the receptionist. Just like dozens of times before, when you were on the front lines of battle or rushing to the aid of your men or screaming the order to retreat. He was always there, ready to catch you if you fell, ready to echo your commands, even ready to shield you when necessary.

And it feels like you're on the battlefield again, when you reach the door behind which you can hear your wife moaning. You glance back for a moment, seeing Alphonse Elric and the men sitting or pacing in the little waiting room. Edward stands there, catching your eye and holding it. He gives you a determined little nod with the hint of a challenging smirk. Suddenly, you realize you're on the receiving end of an encouraging look you've given him so many times.

Even though you're not related by blood at all...why does he look so much like _you?_

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and open the door. The doctor and nurses are bustling around a bed in the middle of the room, your wife lying in agony in the spotlight. She always hated being the center of attention. One of the nurses ushers you to a chair at the head of the bed, and you numbly sit down next to her. Sweat is pouring off her and her face is scrunched up in pain, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to breathe like the nurse is telling her to.

There are still bruises on her neck.

Her eyes open and lock on you, swimming in tears, and everything comes spilling out at once. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for what I've done...and, and leaving you, and...not being there to-"

"Roy," she growls, stiffening all over, "shut up and hold my hand."

So you do, and she crushes it in her grip, her fingernails digging into the back of your hand. And she screams. You haven't heard her scream since you burned her back. She's always so strong, so tough, never crying and fainting like other women. She takes the pain, and she bears it, and she breathes, and then she puts a smile on her face so no one will know.

Clasping her hand as tightly as you can with both of yours, you stare at her in awe. She screams, even though you know it can only make the pain worse, after _you_ tried to crush her throat. You think of her asking you, _begging_ you, to burn her back. You think of that night, when you held her close, asked if she was sure, and she said, _I want this._ Knowing that it meant pain beyond anything she'd ever known, she still asked you to do it. Partly for herself.

But also partly for you.

As long as that tainted mark remained starkly painted on her back, the possibility remained open that there could be more death. Once you burned it away, that avenue was closed and your cursed alchemy would die with you. And now you remember the day before you left for Drachma, when she took your hand and placed it on her still-flat belly. _Just remember,_ she'd said. _There is more you can create than death._

Before you even realize what's going on, it's all over. You hear a tiny cry, and the nurses bustle around, and the doctor smiles as he washes his hands. "Congratulations," he tells the tired new mother. "It's a boy."

You help her sit up, and take the warm washcloth from a nurse. Gently, as gently as you can, you wipe the sweat from her face, and dare to touch her neck again. Her hand, trembling from exertion, reaches up to yours and takes the cloth away. She kisses your palm and presses it gently against the bruises. "We decided on Maes, didn't we?" she says hoarsely, as if there's nothing out of the ordinary. You can feel her tortured voice vibrating beneath your touch.

"Y-Yeah. If it was a boy."

The nurse hands her a little bundle of cloth and pink, wrinkled skin. She holds him and stares down at him with a little smile for the longest time, and she _glows._ Once again, you're struck dumb by just how _beautiful_ she is. Bruised and sweaty, trembling and weary and disheveled...but you'll never get tired of just looking at her.

"Maes," she says to the little bundle, "say hello to your papa."

Before you can protest or prepare yourself, he's tucked snugly into your arms. You can't believe how _heavy_ he is, how unbelievably warm and human and _alive._ There's a whole new person in your arms, and you don't know him yet...but he's yours. Maes's eyes slowly peel open, and you catch your breath as you meet those bright, brown eyes. You wait for him to cry, to recoil from the monster you are...but he just stares. Unblinking, like he's as amazed as you are. Then his eyes crinkle shut again as he yawns hugely, squirming a little in your arms and turning his head towards you as he falls asleep.

You lean towards your wife, you hold your son close to your heart, and your tears dampen her bruises.


End file.
